Tevat Noaḥ
by julads
Summary: A normal interval: July 12, 1994: through a whale, up a mountain, over a bridge and onto a boat, then down again. Secondarily, Kyle is infatuated with a particular luxury item. Stan isn't so interested, but he listens, as usual.


The whale seemed a lot bigger when Stan was younger. "Why doesn't he have any teeth?" he asks Kyle, who's a few steps ahead of him now, going into the darkness.

"What?" Kyle says. He appears again, his sneakers squishing over the pink tongue, left right, left right.

Stan shakes his head and says, "Never mind," then goes with Kyle into the depths. (Two pairs of sneakers squishing now.) Besides, it was just a wayward observation: the whale is still a whale even without teeth, even without a blowhole spurting out mucus and carbon dioxide, even without barnacles caked to its sides. Stan doesn't think of any of those things though. Inferences shouldn't be made based on nothingness, and besides, Stan's brain doesn't even work that way, and besides, Kyle is now going on about the topic of the day again – in veiled terms, of course, because there are other people up ahead, somewhere.

"I don't know if I'd want to spend that much on it though. It's nice, and probably worth it, but considering the nature of the thing, it's not–" He stops, disoriented. They've reached a place in the whale's rocky insides where there's too much space and the right turn isn't so obvious. Kyle's hand goes out, feeling the wall, then feeling Stan's chest. At first it is incidental, then it is teasing, his fingers beginning at the collar of his T-shirt, over the face of the horse (some of the detail is peeling off, it's been washed so much), then all the way down to the hem. Stan takes his hand, abruptly, then uses the opportunity to hold it while they're still in the dark. They are even farther behind now. "It's not what?" Stan asks.

"What? Oh." (There's a left turn somewhere up here, before the mountain, Stan remembers, though he's listening, too.) "I was going to say it's not the kind of thing you can test out before buying." He says this two-dimensionally, because it's lost its initial impact and it's not funny anymore, not even to him. Had he said it before, he would've thrown his head back, laughing soundlessly as he imagined himself going to the manufacturer's depot and saying, _"Hey, let me give this a whirl!"_, but that was back when they were in the lower esophagus, so he would've hit his head on a large growth and then they would've had to leave. Stan takes even Kyle's paper cuts seriously. But that isn't what happened, so all Kyle has to suffer is a moment of disappointment.

"Anyway," Kyle says, sighing, "I realize I have a whole box of them at home, but this one is really a work of art. I can't stop thinking about it!"

"Then just buy it," Stan says. The incline is rising and the passageway is getting narrower. Kyle moves in front of Stan (he'll lead in things like this, always), making as much whole body contact as possible. Stan gets a boner, mostly because of the way Kyle smells. He has to put his hand in his jeans pocket.

"Well, I would," Kyle says, his tone normal, if not leaking something whimsical and poetic (the summer trees on the way up the mountain are deep, verdant, luscious, _et cetera_), "But it's 200 dollars."

"What? Are you serious?" (Going through a cavern now, it's dark again, though not as dark as in the whale.)

"It's quality craftsmanship, Stan."

"How would you even be able to tell? You know, once it's…" (the last three words stretch out under his breath.)

"That's like saying I wouldn't be able to tell the difference between filet mignon and a McRib."

"McRibs are pork though." (They've gone in a circle, but not quite: they're outside again, though at a higher elevation.)

"What?" Kyle, looking over his shoulder at Stan: "They are." Kyle's uncombed eyebrows crumple, but just for a moment. He looks ahead again, resuming his leadership of the two-man mountain expedition. "Well it's not like I've ever had one. But anyway, you know what I mean. It's a matter of quality." Stan responds with a "hm" that Kyle doesn't hear – the boat whistle, _hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii-huuuuuuu uuuuuuuuuuuu_, is getting louder.

A bridge at the summit takes them directly to the boat. This is the heart and the soul of the excursion, the meat and potatoes, both sets of which (read: anti-magic number 4) are squashed into one uncanny debacle: there's that whistle, then also all the animals, their constant but unexciting movements behind glass, an old woman behind glass, an old man behind glass, the length of the floor convulsing in places, the endless rocking of the boat itself. It's dizzying, and not particularly enjoyable. Stan just tries to get through it.

Kyle, at least, is no longer talking about that thing he's never going to buy (he better not), he's not talking at all. He has his face less than an inch away from the glass, studying the mini world within it as if what's inside (hawks and eagles in cages, turkeys, chickens and crows not in cages, barrels of seeds and bundles of hay) is compelling to him, worthy of study. This is short-lived though, and in every case, not just the ornithological foray: he'll look away when the colors and sights and sounds are no longer interesting to him, then go on to the next "exhibit", until there aren't any left and they're traveling through mostly empty space again. Stan feels vaguely ill. They aren't on the boat anymore he doesn't think, but everything is still moving. He leans against the wall. It's cold, sticky with something immaterial, the sheer movement of thousands of pilgrims summer-in and summer-out. He waits, though he doesn't know if gravity has ever firmly established itself up here.

Only after Kyle has gone about ten feet forward (ten feet down?), does he realize Stan is not right behind him. He turns around and says, "Stan?" though by now he is pushing to move forward again, a hand on his knee to hoist up the 6 feet 2 inches of his frame, 9 of which are his head, eyes, mouth, face, the lips that are saying, "It's okay – I'm fine," when the other seems too concerned. "Really," Stan tells Kyle (it's almost true.)

Down the steps, holding onto the yellow railing. A pivot and another flight of battered concrete, another and another. The way down is easy; it's a dreary, sobering experience that Stan is glad for. He can tolerate Kyle talking about that buttplug again because he feels fine now, they're almost off the ride, and the late, late afternoon sunlight is coming through the door-less rectangle that is the exit.


End file.
